Vertigo
by Ista
Summary: After nearly dying during the apprehension of a serial killer who poses victims in famous scenes from Hitchcock films, Will Graham takes time off from the FBI. But when a former colleague requests a private favor (spying on her psychiatrist husband) Will becomes obsessed with a man named Hannibal and his secrets. AU, potential slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Vertigo**

 **Summary:** After nearly dying during the apprehension of a serial killer who poses victims in famous scenes from Hitchcock films, Will Graham takes time off from the FBI. But when a former colleague requests a private favor (spying on her psychiatrist husband) Will becomes obsessed with a man named Hannibal and his secrets. AU, potential slash.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Hannibal,_ _Vertigo,_ or any other Hitchcock film…darn.

 **Warning:** Violence and gore.

 **Chapter 1**

Will Graham peers into the abyss and sees himself.

He races across the rooftop of a six-story apartment building in pursuit of a man wearing a black jacket and wool cap. The man's name is Thomas Duff, and he is wanted for the deaths of three people.

It is 11:37 at night in Baltimore. Beneath them, streetlights blink like sleepy stars, separating and organizing the shuffle of cars on busy streets: slick streaks of color from a foggy distance. The echo of horns like a far-away memory. None of the people below could possibly comprehend what is going on above them.

And maybe that's for the best.

Will hears the _woosh_ of air leave his lungs and the _stomp stomp stomp_ of feet on pavement. A cop, Sumeet, flanks him, matching his strides and surpassing them. Legs pump up and down. Will's lungs burn. He can't recall the last time he ran for a sustained period of time. Fishing was more his speed. For a mind that runs too fast on a regular basis, it's pleasant to enjoy a sport that requires two feet firmly planted and hardly any movement.

 _He's getting away,_ Will thinks of the killer, clenching his teeth. _Don't let him go._

As if reading his mind, Sumeet sprints ahead. For a man in his mid-sixties, Duff is remarkably agile. Just when Will is about to yell at the man to stand down because they have reached the edge of the complex's roof, the suspected serial killer leaps from the roof to another building several feet away. Duff clings to a fire escape ladder before climbing up to adjacent building's roof, one story higher. Sumeet is seconds behind and quickly follows the ousted professor, shimmying up another ladder that runs parallel to the one Duff is using.

Will shouts into his radio. "Jack—he's moved to another roof—headed south. Hurry!"

Duff knocks the gun from Sumeet's grasp as the man fumbles for the roof ledge.

Will's hands move to position on his own weapon. _Wait for the right shot. Steady. Steady._

But the right shot doesn't present itself.

Cold sweat and panic. The two men in front and above Graham are grey shadows blending and becoming one, birds pecking at each other. Will cannot take a shot because there is too much of a risk of hitting the police officer.

So he steps onto the ledge, wavering in the biting wind that rolls off the rooftop and gusts across his body, making the ends of his jacket whip back and forth. He holsters his gun and gauges the distance between buildings. They are nearly touching.

Graham looks behind, hoping he might see Jack Crawford there with his team and heavily-armed members of the Maryland S.W.A.T. team and everything would be okay. Once again, Will Graham lets his imagination run away from him. There is no Crawford. There is no S.W.A.T. team. There is only the wind and the two men struggling above him, and himself, indecisive and introspective when he should be taking action.

Despite the frigid temperature, Will wipes sweat from his palms on his jeans and steps backward a few paces. Then he makes a running leap and ( _thank God) successfully_ grabs hold of the ladder Duff leapt on. Will pulls himself towards the thin bars, rusty yet holding, and slams his mouth on the grimy metal. He tastes the salty copper of blood in his mouth, but he doesn't mind because he _made it._ Will clings to the bars for a split-second and then begins to climb, forcing his shaking arms and legs to work properly, convincing himself that it's no more difficult than climbing his favorite jungle gym back in elementary school.

The first indication that something is wrong is when Will hears the grating screech of metal in his ears, and he finds himself sliding down. The flimsy ladder is collapsing from overuse and breaking its bolts from the side of the building. Will cries out and scrambles for purchase, his hands barely reaching the edge of the rooftop before the entire ladder collapses and falls, a dull _thud_ beneath him.

"Sumeet! Help!" Will screams, but the other man is too preoccupied with Thomas Duff. Both of them are clambering for the cop's gun.

Graham grunts and attempts to pull himself up, but it's no use. His arms begin to ache from the strain of holding on. Heart hammering in his chest, he chances a look down and instantly regrets the decision. The street beneath him de-focuses and begins to spin. Sweat drips from his brow into the chasm beneath him, an un-named animal sitting in wait on the street below with its jaws wide open in a hideous grin.

Will swallows his nausea and fear, forcing his head to jerk upright, nose peeking over the edge of the building. He tries not to think how much his hands scrape against the concrete. He tries not to think about how much his hands are sweating, losing their grip. Any moment now, he will fall. Any moment now…

Then, a heart-stopping cry from above. Graham barely has a moment to realize what is happening until a shadow swoops down and falls beside him. He feels the _rush_ of wind in his ears, the man's scream trailing from his body. Then there is the impact. The sound of bone on concrete.

 _Sumeet. That was Sumeet. Oh God…_

Will closes his eyes as a fresh wave of vertigo washes over him, but it doesn't stop the image of the police officer plunging to his death from re-playing before him, swallowed by a dark animal's eager maw.

When the empath opens his eyes, he is staring into the black eyes of Thomas Duff. The retired professor runs a hand over the white stubble on his face, examines the gun he is now holding, and leers at Will.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

"A cliché." Graham's voice is shaking. His voice is shaking because he knows what Duff wants to do. It's what he has planned from the beginning.

That stops Duff for a moment, and that's all Will is hoping for.

"A cliché?" repeats the professor. He cocks his head to the side. "But how can what is happening to you be a cliché?"

Will's voice grows louder, more confident. "This _scene_ is reminiscent of every classic suspense film ever made. Hero suspended from high place at the end of the movie. The villain threatens him with a plunge to his death."

The killer removes his wool cap and rubs his bald head, pondering Graham's theory. His words emit puffs of air like steam rising as his nostrils flare.

"Just like your policeman friend."

Will squirms. Feet dangling, sweat dripping, arms straining, breath quickening.

The empath's eyes bore into Duff's as if he can hypnotize the other man. _Take the bait. Take the bait. Take it._

"Ah, but you're wrong about two things, Mr. Graham," says Duff, his mouth curling up in a smile, thoroughly enjoying this. "You're not the hero of this story. And this isn't the end."

Then the toe of one of Duff's boots slides over Will's right hand and presses down. Graham whimpers, and his knuckles crack. He can't hold on. He can't hold on. He feels his grip slipping—

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!"

Agent Crawford's voice rings like a justice bell. From his angle, Will can only see Jack's gun blocking his countenance in a firm firing stance. He is backed by a dozen other officers, also wielding weapons.

Duff smiles softly. "Not so cliché after all."

"PUT YOUR GUN DOWN, AND STEP AWAY!"

Duff removes his boot from Will's hand and the empath gasps at the release of pressure. The professor slowly raises his hands and gets down on his knees, setting the gun down.

"Jack!" Will cries. His abused hands can no longer support him, and he slips…

For a moment, Graham views the swirl of concrete beneath him as if it is rushing up to meet him in an embrace. His vision spins like a carnival ride out of control, and he can taste Sumeet's fear as his own. In a matter of seconds, he knows what it was like to _be_ Sumeet—hurtling towards one's fate. Like a penny thrown in a fountain.

Will's hands give way until another hand catches his right arm and he stops abruptly in mid-air. Dizzy, he looks up into Jack Crawford's wide eyes.

 _He's terrified._

"I got you, Will. I got you."

Other officers surround Jack, and he is being pulled out of the abyss and onto the flat pavement of the rooftop. His legs immediately sink as if he is placed on quicksand, and he can hear Crawford's voice humming in his head.

"Will, breathe. Breathe…"

TBC

 **A/N:** I _just_ started watching this show and can't get enough of it. It. Is. Just. Beautiful. The idea of this fic (basically mixing the plot of Hitchcock's _Vertigo_ with the characters in _Hannibal_ ) came to me suddenly, and I couldn't _not_ write it out. Hope you all enjoy the wild ride to come! Reviews are always welcome. Lots of Will angst and h/c too! Thanks for reading!

~Ista ^_^


	2. Chapter 2

**Vertigo**

 **Chapter 2**

It starts as a spiral that is amaranthine in hue, a blooming flower. The spiral causes waves of sound (dark, eighties, synth) like a _Bladerunner_ fever dream to surge over his body. Jack Crawford's office at Quantico disappears, leaving only the red-purple corkscrew to swirl around him, vertiginous and disorienting. Its purpose is not to swallow him whole, but for him to get lost within it. It is the same spiral that took Officer Sumeet's life in the dark alleyway. It is the same whorl that beckoned to Will Graham when he was suspended above its eager jaws.

Graham blinks and he is back in Crawford's bright office. His head aches.

"I've seen you go down this rabbit hole before."

Will Graham considers the bottle of aspirin in his pocket.

"First, with Garret Jacob Hobbs. Then, the Chesapeake Ripper. Now Thomas Duff."

He fishes for the bottle and pulls it out.

"I'm not letting you risk your own sanity to pursue criminals on my team until you've gotten over this."

He pops the cap of the bottle with his thumb and shakes a single white tablet into his palm.

"Will?"

He tosses the pill into his mouth and dry-swallows it. It leaves a chalky taste in his mouth. He wonders why pills in the U.S. aren't sugar-coated like some are in the European countries he has visited.

" _Will._ "

Graham looks up at Crawford, sitting opposite him. The agent-in-charge's hands are peacefully folded, but his eyes are wide and rimmed with pink.

 _Just like when I saw his face on the rooftop, right before he pulled me up. He's worried._

The empath says, "I'm right here, Jack."

Crawford leans forward, elbows on his knees. "No, you're not."

Will can't hide the shake from his voice. "I would like to continue my work on your team."

He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing at the pain that drills into his skull. He sets the glasses on the table next to him.

"Migraine?" Jack's gentle voice floats through his darkened vision.

Will shakes his head, grimacing. "Just a headache."

"Want some water?"

"No—thank you," says Will and blindly gropes for the spectacles he set down only moments ago. He panics when his hands can't locate them on the table. The blur of Crawford's form looms forward and the BSU director places them in his palms. Will swallows and half-smiles at Jack's kindness.

Crawford says, "What did Duff _say_ to you?"

Will slides his glasses back on.

"It's not what he _said._ It's what he made me _see_."

* * *

"So, what does it feel like to be on vacation?"

Alana Bloom smiles and hands Will a beer, then sits opposite him in a matching blue wicker lawn chair. She takes a sip from her drink, and Will does the same.

"It's not a vacation. It's forced leave."

Bloom makes an "aww" face but is unable to hide the mirth in her eyes. "Of course it is! Just look at you—enjoying yourself on a Tuesday afternoon."

They are sitting by a large open window in the empty living room of Alana's new apartment. Plastic sheets cover the hardwood floor like a crime scene. Cans and brushes lay at their feet. Bloom is wearing grey sweatpants and an orange Orioles t-shirt. Graham is wearing a plaid button-up and torn jeans.

Despite another lingering headache, Will chuckles and gives into the moment. "You asked me to help you with your manual labor!"

Alana mock-slaps him and leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "It's called a _painting party_."

Will takes another sip of his drink. "That sounds like a terrible party."

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Graham pretends to look out the window while he feels Alana's eyes on him, observing him, perhaps _diagnosing_ him.

After a time, she says, "Thank you for coming, Will."

Graham huffs out a laugh, avoiding eye contact. "Just be glad your new place is on the first floor, or I wouldn't have."

"Is it that bad?"

Graham closes his eyes and sees the spiral moving again beneath his dangling feet.

"The vertigo…"

Will opens his eyes and looks into Alana's face—he reads concern and solemnity. It forces him to act the same.

"Symptoms include nausea, abnormal eye movement, headache, and ringing in the ears," Graham states as if reading from a textbook.

Bloom tilts her head. "But vertigo is treatable with physical therapy and medication."

Will takes a deep breath and bows his head. "This isn't a physical ailment, Alana."

She runs a hand through her dark, wavy hair, tied in a ponytail. "Then it's a trauma."

"It's a fear," Will murmurs, almost a whisper.

"Of heights," she says.

He says, "Of falling."

Bloom's expression is unreadable; it unnerves Will into speaking.

"But I'm fine—it's nothing. Don't worry about me. Really."

They finish their drinks in silence and then Bloom gets to her feet. "Shall we?"

They start at opposite ends of the western wall with the window and work towards the middle. The paint is a deep crimson with lavender trim for the windowsill, bold colors that threaten to pull Will back into an unwanted dream. But once he dips his brush into the can and begins to paint, method and muscle memory take over. The two professors exchange small talk and idle gossip. The beer Will consumed earlier has dulled his headache, and he feels pleasantly _free_ of responsibility, of fear, of worry for the future.

Once the majority of the wall has been painted, Alana carries over a small ladder to reach the section of the wall closest to the ceiling.

"Maybe you can start on the trim—" she begins.

"I can do that," says Will, grabbing the ladder with one hand.

Bloom's eyes flash indecision. "Oh, no, Will. You don't have to... I'm totally capable—"

"I'd like to," Will says quietly.

Alana purses her lips, as if trying to decide if this is a good idea. He can tell from her body language that she believes it definitely _isn't_.

"Besides, it's good therapy." He cracks a rare, easy-going grin, and that's all the persuasion she needs.

"All right," Bloom concedes. "But I'm standing next to the ladder… Just in case."

Will puts his hands up, relenting. "You're the boss."

He grabs a paint can and brush, placing them on top of the ladder. Then he takes a step.

"See?" he says, smiling. "I look up, I look down." His head moves with his words.

"Nice 'n easy," says Alana, and he can hear the apprehension in her voice.

Will takes another step.

"I look up, I look down."

Sweat inexplicably trickles from his temple.

He takes another step.

"I look up, I look down."

The white speckled ceiling and plastic-covered floor shimmer in his vision.

"Will…"

He takes another step.

"I look up, I look…"

Alana Bloom's plastic floor morphs into a dark alleyway that holds the contorted remains of Officer Sumeet. Flecks of blood-red coat the ground around him, a mix of potholes and garbage. And then the spinning starts. The ground whirls around him like a wraith's fingerprint, and Will is suspended above it, knuckles cracking, arms aching, ready to slip into the mouth of a beast with bloody lips. He can't hold on. He can't hold on.

He falls.

"Will!"

As he slowly comes back to himself, Will Graham is aware of Alana's arms around his chest and waist, supporting him. His bruised knees are folded on the plastic covering the wooden floorboards. Syllables cannot form, but tears flow down his cheeks. Alana kisses his forehead—all the words she doesn't need to say contained in a single gesture—and Will buries his head in her shoulder.

TBC

 **A/N:** The "painting party" line comes from the movie _Zodiac._ Let me know what you think of the story so far! Hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Vertigo**

 **Chapter 3**

Two days later, Will Graham finds himself with a job.

An old colleague, Bedelia Du Maurier, calls him one morning and asks him to drop by that afternoon. 3:00 PM, if possible. Will isn't doing anything aside from tying flies and going for long walks, getting lost with his dogs. He accepts the invitation, even if it is unexpected.

He takes an aspirin before driving to her office.

"Thank you for coming. I thought perhaps you had forgotten me."

Mikasa Crown Jewel Platinum china teacups on a silver platter are set before him. Dr. Du Maurier is resplendent in a currant-colored dress suit. Her gold hair falls delicately on her shoulders. She slides into a seat opposite him. Will immediately feels at ease in her presence, and he remembers expressing gratitude to her in the past for the way she makes her patients and colleagues alike feel calm. She purposefully lowers her voice and steadies her breathing when in the presence of others.

"I could never forget you, Bedelia."

Those blue eyes, like crystal. So clear and yet so difficult to read. Will thinks: _Perhaps that is her strategy as a psychiatrist. She forces herself to maintain an aura of objectivity so much so that she suppresses her own emotions in exchange for others' comfort._

She smiles softly. Her voice is breathy and hypnotic. "How have you been, Will?"

 _Lostinadreamspiralingoutheadaching_

"Oh, fine," he says and removes his glasses, polishing them on his shirt to avoid eye contact. "How about you? From the state of your office, it looks like your private practice is going well."

Freshly cut pink gladiolas, fine linen curtains, a mixture of European Art Nouveau and American Gothic for the furniture styles.

"English design?" Will asks.

"Danish Modern," Bedelia replies. She places a sugar cube and trickle of milk in each cup before pouring the tea. The steaming brown liquid smells of smoke and honey. "My husband picked the pieces. He has a flair for style."

Will's mouth opens a bit with the news. "Congratulations! I didn't know you were married."

"I kept my maiden name," Bedelia says and stirs the liquid in the dainty white cups with a teaspoon. "His name is Hannibal Lecter, and he's a psychiatrist too." Her eyes flash to Will, searching for a reaction.

"Well, I suppose that makes sense," Will says, smiling. He takes a cup and sips at the milky-sweet tea. "You two probably have a lot to talk about."

The comment is tongue-in-cheek, but Du Maurier doesn't laugh.

"He's the reason you're here. I need a favor."

Graham places his cup down and leans forward, eyebrows up. "The plot thickens!"

"Will, I'm serious."

The smile vanishes. He clears his throat, pushes his glasses back up on his nose. "I know. What is it?"

She takes a breath and lets it out. "Hannibal has been acting…. erratically lately. Without warning, he'll cancel appointments with patients or refer them to someone else. And he'll go missing for hours at a time, sometimes over night…"

Will says, "Have you spoken with your husband about this?"

Bedelia looks into her lap, hands folded. Graham realizes she is on the verge of crying. Something cold falls into the pit of his stomach. He has never seen her demonstrate any strong emotion before, let alone despair. He fumbles for a Kleenex in his pocket and reaches out to her.

She accepts it and dries her eyes. "I did early on."

"And what did he say?"

"He would say that he was just at the corner market or an art museum and that he lost track of time."

Will swallows. "Do you believe him?"

Du Maurier lifts her head and shakes it, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. "There's something… _different_ about Hannibal lately. He has this _lost_ look about him. I'll catch him in our living room, sitting by the fire, and staring into space. Or in… in bed. He's physically present, but mentally, he's far away."

Graham's voice is very quiet. "You think he's cheating on you?"

Bedelia takes a teacup with a trembling hand and sips it, lost in thought. "I don't know what to think anymore. I could _speculate_ forever, but I need to know the _truth_." Her jaw sets, determined. Will Graham is the focus of her attention.

And he finally understands why she invited him for tea.

"You want me to _spy_ on your husband?!"

"Just for an afternoon, after his appointments."

Will gets to his feet, making a sound of disgust. "No."

" _Please_ , Will."

"I'm _not_ a private investigator!"

"It's only part of one day. If you uncover anything unusual, tell me. That's it."

Graham laughs bitterly as he begins to pace the room. "I'm on forced leave from the FBI."

Bedelia's tone is calm once more, her posture perfect, her form composed. "Then you should have plenty of time."

The empath scoffs at this, but Du Maurier is persistent.

"This will give you something to do with it. We both know what happens when you get bored, Will."

Graham rolls his eyes. "Why don't I call up a few friends in the Bureau? I'm sure one of them could refer a PI to you—"

"I don't trust anyone but you." Bedelia's eyes flash again, dangerous in their rare transparency. "You can be discreet."

Graham stands in front of a window that overlooks a rainy city street. Drizzle criss-crosses and clouds his view, and he focuses on the wheels of a passing car, spinning endlessly, for eternity, gaining speed and heightening his anxiety. For a moment, he feels lightheaded and grasps the windowsill for stability until he feels a hand on his arm.

"Will…"

He turns to the doctor. She is examining him, hopeful for an answer. He thinks of her past kindnesses to him. Like Jack Crawford locating his glasses and Alana Bloom allowing him to reveal his rawest emotions without judgment, Bedelia Du Maurier is one of the few people he considers a friend.

"All right," he says. "I'll do it."

They chat for ten more minutes until Bedelia has to prepare for her next patient. She ushers him to the door and catches his elbow before he leaves. Her hand reveals a white ticket.

"What's this?" he says, taking it.

"Payment for your first assignment," she says with a slight smile. "I hope you like Verdi."

TBC

 **A/N:** Next chapter-Will sees Hannibal for the first time! Yay! Let me know how I'm doing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Vertigo**

 **Chapter 4**

Will Graham has never seen an opera.

It isn't really his scene. Not that he's a hoedown kind of guy either. He just never got into the whole "singing for three plus hours in a foreign language" thing. But he wears a decent jacket, grey, with a brown jumper underneath, and khakis. And he even polishes a brown pair of Joseph Abboud dress shoes until they are shiny. Even with the fancier ware, Will prefers the feel of plaid against his skin, and a hint of checkered blue and white peeks from beneath the jumper. His wallet rests in one trouser pocket, a small pair of binoculars in the other.

Graham wishes he was on his way to teach a class on profiling at the Academy rather than going for a night out.

When Will arrives at the Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall, he feels slightly out of his element—a mixture of boredom and unanticipated nerves.

 _Why am I nervous? You're not even going to_ meet _the man you'll be spying on. He could be any guy in this lobby._

Graham glances at the faces of the classical music and theater lovers of Baltimore—the wealthy, the intellectual, the aesthetician, the snobbish, and the vain. People measured by fine clothes and bank accounts.

But these are stereotypes, of course. There is at least one person standing amongst them who was not born into wealth, whether they are aware of him or not.

Will smiles to himself and fidgets with the collar of his plaid button-up. There is no sign of Du Maurier or her spouse, so he offers his ticket to the attendant at the theater door and enters the auditorium.

A gold curtain drapes across the stage. Will is initially dazzled by its brightness and then turns his attention to his seat number. An usher with a tiny flashlight scans his ticket and guides him to the correct area.

Bedelia left a message on his cell a few days before, detailing where she and her husband would be sitting in the auditorium in comparison to his seat. As Will scans the area, he is impressed with Bedelia's selection. His seat is in the back of the theater on the left, on the opposite side and behind from where the psychiatrist couple will be sitting. He is far enough away to sneak a glance at his target without arousing suspicion from that angle.

Will turns his attention to the program for _Il Trovatore_ , looking up every half a minute to check the Orchestra section, seventh row, on the aisle.

They enter five minutes after he scans the opera's summary.

Bedelia wears a silver satin dress that hangs off one shoulder, revealing a fine collarbone and a neck that would seduce Dracula. She walks slowly down the carpeted aisle, a white clutch in one hand, her eyes focused ahead. Graham is once again hypnotized not only by her beauty but by her seemingly effortless presence; the empath cannot take his eyes off her.

Then he sees Hannibal Lecter.

The man is in his mid to late forties, tall, and dressed as elegantly as Bedelia, if not more so. He wears an aubergine velvet suit and lavender-striped tie. One might call his attire eccentric if they couldn't see his face and the complete intensity with which he scans the auditorium upon entering it. Graham instantly jams his nose into the playbook and waits until he can no longer feel the eyes of Dr. Lecter upon him.

After a few seconds, Will sets the program down and continues to observe his target. He drinks up the body language of Bedelia's husband—the smoothness and assuredness, the way no step, no movement, is disjointed or out of place. His sandy hair is neatly parted on the side, and he pauses to run a hand through it when another patron on the aisle waves to him. Lecter goes to the elderly lady, and Graham wishes he could take his binoculars out at this moment to get a better look at his countenance. Even from his distance, Graham can still see the forced smile on the other man's face before following Bedelia down the aisle.

He gestures with his arm to indicate their row, and Du Maurier, ever serene, sits down. Hannibal sits beside her on the aisle.

Moments later, the lights go down and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra begins to tune.

Graham feels as if he is in a trance for the next hour, transported to fifteenth century Spain and the romance of Leonora and Manrico. He is so distracted by the sound and spectacle that he forgets to spy on Dr. Lecter during this time and has to prevent himself from following Bedelia and her partner to the lobby during intermission, as curious as he is.

He dry-swallows an aspirin instead.

It is not until the fourth act that Will remembers to use his binoculars and takes them out quietly, focusing at first on the action in the opera before taking a glance at Hannibal Lecter.

 _This is the "Miserere,"_ Will thinks, remembering the play's synopsis. _Manrico is imprisoned and Leonora goes to the evil Count, offering her life in place of her lover's._

Will feels the music wash over him. The chorus, offstage, chants. Leonora listens to them by herself onstage. Strings start with strident chords, a mesmerizing funeral dirge for the soprano to sing over.

 _That sound, those prayers, so solemn and dire..._

Hannibal's face is illuminated by the events on the stage.

… _fill the air with baleful terror._

The doctor's eyes widen, reflecting the fear on Leonora's face for her lover. Will shares those emotions, picking up on her fear through Lecter. In this moment, they share the same expression.

 _The distress that fills me almost deprives my lips of their breath, my heart of its beating._

Then, a miracle! The music changes to a major key, and Manrico's voice carries through from backstage, from prison. Leonora looks up, hopeful at first.

 _Ah! How slow death is in its coming, to him who longs to die!_

A smile on Lecter's face, his eyes shiny. Will smiles too.

 _Farewell, Leonora, farewell._

The song culminates in a duet between the two leads, Manrico's voice ringing out, strong and almost defiant, Leonora's voice mournful and passionate. As magnetic as the singers are on stage, Will only sees Hannibal. He watches as Lecter stares, enraptured, lips slightly parted, until a tear slides down his cheek. And, seeing Hannibal cry, Will cries too.

Graham realizes in that moment that a person does not go to an opera to say they have _seen_ it. As a feast for the eyes, the visual performance is splendid. However, what Lecter has shown him with one intimate reaction is that to _feel_ the emotions an opera evokes is its main objective. Catharsis.

Will takes a sharp breath, as if he has awakened from a dream.

The curtain falls.

Graham pushes his glasses up on his nose and bumbles his way to the lobby. He goes to a concessions stand and gets a cup of water, sipping it slowly and willing his heart rate to decrease. Is he sweating? He runs a hand across his brow and suddenly feels so out of place in this morass of well-dressed bodies, feathered and jeweled and coiffed and painted.

Someone brushes against his arm. He instinctively jerks away from the touch.

"Excuse me."

Graham finds himself staring into the dark brown eyes of Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, he feels as if he has been struck by lightning.

Then the moment is gone, begging the empath to question whether it happened at all, and Lecter blends into the crowd, Bedelia on his arm. Will is left to gawk, open-mouthed and ridiculous, until finally composing himself enough to stumble out of the theater and into the night.

He hums Verdi all the way back to Wolf Trap.

TBC

 **A/N:** Doing research for this fanfic is fun! I've never been to Baltimore, so I'll try to incorporate as many actual places as possible (while still probably bending the truth on some landmarks and what they look like). Let me know how I'm doing!


	5. Chapter 5

**Vertigo**

 **Chapter 5**

Will's aspirin supply is getting low. He hears the rattle of a handful of pills at the bottom of the bottle before shaking two out and swallowing them with a grimace.

He's starting to get used to their chalky aftertaste, but he doesn't mind. Anything to keep the headaches at bay.

 _Because when the headaches start, the nightmares aren't far behind…_

His subconscious, like a tiger, stalks him when he's most vulnerable.

After a weekend of _Il Trovatore_ floating through his mind, Will Graham puts gas in his car and feeds his dogs. He packs a small duffel bag with a blanket, binoculars, tape recorder, pen, and notepad. In a methodical fashion that he hopes his target might have approved of, Will Graham prepares for the stakeout of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

 _The sleeve of his purple suit brushing his arm coincided with a jolt of electricity, a static shock, a realization, a becoming…_

Will would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't been able to get Bedelia's husband out of his mind. From the moment he first set eyes on his poised figure at the symphony hall, Will knew there was something special about Dr. Lecter. Tranquility in his posture, something otherworldly in his eyes. How like a sponge they were, threatening to soak up all the empath's hopes, dreams, fears, and idiosyncrasies.

Du Maurier contacts him Monday morning. Lecter sees patients until 2:30 PM. Would Will be available to follow him and report back the same day?

 _Yes, Will would._

"Did you enjoy the opera?" Bedelia asks, breathy voice revealing a hint of amusement. Was she aware of her husband bumping into the empath in the lobby after the show?

Graham quakes at the memory. "It was…sublime."

He shoves his duffel under the passenger seat of his station wagon and drives to the address Bedelia gave him earlier. He parks down the street from a grand three-story brownstone affair next to an old church. Then Will waits.

At approximately, 2:35 PM, a large man wearing a ridiculous lemon-colored scarf and matching fedora exits the building. Five minutes later, Hannibal Lecter also leaves his office, and Graham's heart skips a beat.

The psychiatrist wears a wide spaced, brown, chalk stripe on light grey suit, a speckled red tie, and brown leather Oxfords. The man looks left and right down the street, and Graham hopes for a millisecond that he will look in his direction, regardless of the fact that it would give him away. Lecter puts on a pair of sunglasses to block the glare of a late summer afternoon and slides into a black Jaguar XJ. He revs the engine and takes off. Will starts his Volvo seconds later and follows the doctor from a distance.

They meander through the streets of Baltimore until the doctor parks and disappears into a shop with a sign that reads: APOTHECARY & AROMATHERAPY.

Will drives around the block and parks across the street. He takes out his cellphone and Googles the shop's address, coming up with a company called "SoBotanical," which specializes in essential oils and fragrances. Moments later, Hannibal exits the shop, carrying a small white bag. Shades on, back in the Jaguar.

Graham speaks quickly into the tape recorder: "Subject makes a purchase from a local, organic aromatherapists. Is he buying a gift for someone? Bedelia wears perfume."

The empath flashes back to sitting in Dr. Du Maurier's office, a touch of jasmine in the air. Like summer rain.

"Or perhaps he's on his way to a date…"

Graham flicks the tape recorder off and continues following Lecter. Next, a winding drive to the Westminster Cemetery.

"Definitely not a _date_ ," Will mutters to himself and slows to a crawl on the gravel road. Luckily, he's behind two other vehicles and uses them as cover.

By the time he has parked in the cemetery's lot, Lecter has already left the Jaguar, white bag in hand, and is climbing a hill dotted with tombstones and bunches of flowers. Will zips up his jacket and exits his car, careful not to get too close or make too much noise.

He follows the doctor up a small hill and wends between markers, more cautious than usual to avoid stepping on a grave. Not that Will Graham is a superstitious person. Generally, he isn't. But he's acting as a shadow to one who moves between tombstones as if he's been here countless times…

 _He probably has._

…So he pays attention to the rocks and branches, not to mention dead bodies, underfoot.

Graham abruptly stops when Hannibal pauses at one tombstone and ducks behind a tree, catching his breath.

 _That was too close._

The empath cranes his neck around the old yew. The psychiatrist brushes his hands idly across a grave marker, the ghost of a smile on his face, and continues along the same path.

Will continues when Hannibal is some feet away and stoops beside the tombstone the other man had admired. The first thing he notices is the carving of a raven that appears to be sitting on the top part of a man's skull at the apex of the tombstone.

 _Not a skull, a bust… A bust of Pallas._

His mouth opens with recognition long before he reads the epitaph commemorating the deceased poet:

EDGAR ALLAN POE

A chilly breeze more common in December blows across his face. Will Graham jams his hands in his jacket pockets and continues on.

Minutes later, Dr. Lecter stops again. With no handy tree to use for concealment, Graham crouches behind a large, stately marker and pulls out his trusty binoculars.

Some feet away, the psychiatrist kneels beside a tombstone. As if proposing to it, he opens the white bag and places its contents on the grave. Will brings the binoculars down, trying for a different angle to get a better view, but Hannibal is blocking the epitaph. The doctor bows his head.

 _Is he praying?_

Gradually, Lecter's right hand reaches out to the marker and holds it there, as if tenderly gripping the arm of a loved one. Then he neatly folds the white bag, puts it in a trouser pocket, and begins to head back the way he came, towards Will.

The empath panics until a small group of old women carrying baskets of roses pass by and, not seeing Will, effectively block him from view as Dr. Lecter walks past him too.

Graham knows he has to move fast. Once he is satisfied that the psychiatrist is out of view, he scrambles to the tombstone Lecter was so preoccupied with moments before. The epitaph reads: DR. ROMAN LYSANDER FELL. The marker's granite is crumbling, which gives the tombstone an unkempt shabbiness. There's something tragic about it.

 _Not as famous as Poe,_ thinks Will. _Not many people visit Dr. Fell anymore or know who he is._ He searches his memory banks for any recognition of the name "Roman Fell" but comes up with zilch.

He scribbles the name on the epitaph into his flipbook and bends over, picking up the small brown bottle resting on the grave.

 _Instead of a bouquet, he places an offering. A fragrance._

Graham uncaps the bottle and sprays it into the air. The lingering smell of spearmint makes his nose tingle in the crisp breeze. He pockets Lecter's perfume with his binoculars and races back along the path, hoping he hasn't lost the other man.

Dr. Lecter's Jaguar is just growling out of the parking lot by the time Will gets back to his Volvo. He hops in and continues his stakeout.

It is approximately 3:30 PM by the time Hannibal Lecter enters the Baltimore Museum of Art. Graham follows him to the American Collection on the second floor. The sweet smell of preservation and prolonged decay accosts his senses, conjuring the strange association of maple syrup over pancakes.

It is easy to hide in a museum. Tourists in clumps, like flocks of fleshy seagulls, provide a natural barrier between Dr. Lecter and Will Graham. Thus the empath sticks to the shadows and pursues his unknowing prey.

The psychiatrist takes each step with purpose. _He's been here multiple times,_ Will thinks. _This has become a routine._

The crowd thins out and Graham finds himself lingering between rooms as Lecter enters a dim display. He sits on a leather seat before a 36" X 48" painting that is illuminated by a bright spotlight. Hannibal's posture is erect, exuding focus. Because his back is to Will, the empath can't see his face, but he's too distracted by the painting to worry at the moment.

Something out of a dream. A spiraling out. Dark clouds in the background, like wisps of smoke, ethereal and hellish at the same time. And from those clouds looms a black stag, antlers sharp enough to penetrate a hide, ancient. The stag's enormous head is tilted and looks upon the figure in the foreground with glassy eyes.

Will's jaw unhinges. His mouth opens again, expressing soundless shock.

The man in the painting is Hannibal Lecter. He wears a charcoal frock coat from the 1800s and stands straight, hands holding something…. Will can't make out what it is. The man in the painting stares straight ahead, almost daring the viewer to come closer. If the psychiatrist had been wearing different clothes and standing up, Will might have been convinced that Lecter was looking into a mirror rather than a work of art.

A half hour passes in silence. Graham wanders aimlessly around the room adjacent to the one Hannibal sits in, passing by occasionally to make sure the man is still there, and itching to know what is going on in the psychiatrist's head. When the half hour is up, Dr. Lecter stands and walks casually back the way he came. Will assumes Hannibal is leaving and does not follow because he wants a closer look at the painting. He _needs_ to get a closer look.

The card beside the painting is labeled, "FELL AND HIS FATE, 1917. Artist: Unknown."

 _Dr. Roman Fell?_

The empath sits in the exact spot the psychiatrist occupied seconds before. The seat is still warm, and Will inhales deeply. He checks his watch and notes the time: 4:00 P.M. Although his temples pound, and he clears a dry throat, craving water or aspirin, he forces his head to look up, and the rest of the museum dissolves away.

In the painting, Dr. Fell holds a small bulb-shaped bottle with green flowers encased in white glass with a silver cap.

 _Perfume…_

Will's gaze continue to rise until they rest upon the face he saw for the first time at the opera days before.

The eyes of Hannibal Lecter pierce him. They are two points of maroon, twin candles burning with fire from an unspeakable place. Will is hypnotized, drawn to the hidden truths in those eyes, and cannot look away. Then those red circles turn into the blinking traffic lights below him. Graham finds himself clinging to the ledge of the apartment building once more, shaking, unable to hold on much longer, and when he looks down…

…the world tilts on its axis, and Will Graham is falling in slow motion towards a vast whirlpool.

"Sir?"

Waves crash beneath him, and there is the roar of a beast beneath its surface, drawing him closer, closer, ready to swallow him whole—

"Sir, the museum is closing now."

Graham startles and gapes at the security guard standing beside him. He wipes a palm across his sweating face as he returns to himself.

"But the museum doesn't close until 5:00 PM," he says.

"It's five now, sir."

Will's eyes widen as he pulls back his sleeve to reveal his watch. Its shiny case confirms the guard's statement. He has been sitting in front of the painting of Dr. Fell for an entire hour.

 _But how can that be?_

Graham composes himself, chancing one last look at the haunting painting. Then the FBI profiler leaves before the black stag has a chance to leap out of the piece of art and follow him home.

TBC

 **A/N:** In case you hadn't realized it by now, this fic is definitely a slow burn. Thanks for the reviews! Let me know how I'm doing. Next chapter—Will meets Hannibal face to face!


	6. Chapter 6

**Vertigo**

 **Chapter 6**

Will is trying to do too many things at once. It takes him four failed attempts before he realizes he cannot effectively hold his cell phone, open a bottle of aspirin, and unlock his car door at the same time. The empath's limbs shake as if he's just run a marathon, his heart humming in his chest.

 _First thing's first._

Graham opens his car door, jams his keys into the ignition, and realizes his vehicle is the only one in the museum's parking lot. An unsettling quiet falls upon him. The day's fading light shines a beam of orange directly through the windshield. It pierces his skull, and he takes in a sharp breath, seeing the light's afterimage when he closes his eyes. Will takes another breath and pops open the aspirin bottle, swallowing the second-to-last pill. A painkiller run is in his future.

Then he takes his cell phone and punches in a number on speed dial.

"Hello, Will," Alana Bloom answers. She sounds pleased.

Graham doesn't have time for pleasantries. His voice quivers with excitement.

"Alana, I need a favor."

"Shoot."

"I need you to research a man named Dr. Roman Lysander Fell. He was buried in Baltimore, and his picture hangs in the Baltimore Museum of Art."

"I'm not exactly a historian, Will."

"But you're extremely detail-oriented," says the empath. "And I need your objectivity."

Disapproval in Alana's tone. "I thought you were on leave from the FBI. Are you back on a case?"

"It's a case, but it's not for the Bureau."

A hefty sigh. "All right. You said 'Dr. Roman Fell?'"

"That's correct." Will swallows, his heart still hammering like the drumbeat at a discoteque. "And try to see if there's any connection between Dr. Fell and perfume."

"Perfume?" Disbelief.

"Yes, and…" Graham debates asking her to do more and then decides he needs to cover all his bases. "Edgar Allan Poe."

"'The Raven' guy?!"

Will presses a hand to his throbbing temple. The dashboard shimmers before him. "Yes."

"Okay. Shall I e-mail you the info?"

"We can meet up—see a movie," Will says, spur of the moment. "My treat. Will you be in Baltimore next week?"

"Tuesday," she replies.

"I'll see you then."

Silence. Then Alana speaks, sarcasm oozing out of the phone's speaker. "Georgetown's great, by the way."

"S-sorry," Graham stammers. "I just…" He loses the right words with the exhaustion, the headache, and red eyes from the painting staring straight through him.

A pause, then: "Something or _someone_ has definitely piqued your interest."

Will isn't exactly sure how to respond to that statement.

Alana Bloom's voice is a purr on the other end. "What does she look like?"

* * *

Back in Wolf Trap, Will gradually calms down. He feeds the pack and takes them for a long, rambling walk through the fields. Eventually, natural light becomes scarce, and he heads inside when his breath begins to frost the air. The dogs crowd around him, licking his palms any chance they get, running between his legs. Once he has started a fire, they begin to settle, and Will turns to his freezer to select one microwave meal from two dozen he has stocked away.

Turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cranberry…pudding? He never knows what to call the tart jelly that comes with this particular frozen fare. _Best not to question it._ Graham sighs, unwraps the packaging, and goes through the motions of heating, opening, and consuming its contents—the flavors ranging from salty to buttery to sweet and sour. Basic. Just a cut above eating salted cardboard. He swallows a third of it before making a cup of chamomile tea and settling into an old, ratty armchair in front of the fire.

Winston obediently pads over and lies at his feet. The empath rubs the dog's ears, takes a deep breath, and calls Bedelia Du Maurier.

She answers immediately. "What did you see?"

He tells her everything—in one, long, rambling sentence without a breath. Will tells her about the parfumier, the cemetery, and the art museum. He tells her about Dr. Roman Lysander Fell and the painting with the stag. But he doesn't tell the psychiatrist how he lost time after Hannibal had left, how he felt more alive following in her husband's footsteps than he had in a long time, or how he couldn't get Dr. Lecter out of his mind.

After Will has finished, breathless, he awaits a response from Du Maurier, but the line has gone silent.

"Does the name Roman Fell mean anything to you?"

A long pause. "No."

Will rubs his forehead against a headache that threatens to return. "That response wasn't entirely convincing, Bedelia."

She hesitates. Will wonders if she could be speaking to him with Lecter nearby. The thought makes him shiver.

Her voice comes out soft and breathy over the phone. "A few weeks ago, Hannibal left a check he wrote to an electrician on the desk in my study. He had signed it 'Roman Fell.' I thought it must have been some kind of joke, but when I asked him about it and showed him the check, Hannibal seemed to go into some kind of…trance. He wasn't himself. It only happened for a moment, and then he snapped out of it and tore up the check. He said that his thoughts had been elsewhere, that he had made a mistake, and he wrote a new one."

"Did you ask him if he knew who Fell was?"

"Yes, I did. He ignored my question."

Graham's thoughts race for a moment between various diagnoses. Dementia is a possibility, or mini strokes, anxiety… The list goes on and on, but none of them are home runs.

Winston nuzzles his calf, and it returns Will to the present. "Bedelia, I'd like to continue observing your husband after his appointments each day. Could you send me his schedule for the next two weeks?"

"Of course." She pauses again, wavering. "I may have another way for you to learn more about him."

"Oh?" Graham winces against the pain in his forehead.

"You could become one of my husband's patients."

Will stops breathing.

She continues. "In order to learn more about him. It would be an effective method, don't you think?"

Graham finds his voice. "But how would I—"

"I can ask one of my psychologist friends to give you a fake referral. It would be no trouble at all."

Will weighs this option with the risk of possibly being discovered. But it would bring his detective work to a new level. A personal interview. As much as the idea of occupying the same room with the enigmatic Dr. Lecter again intimidates him, Graham cannot pass it up.

"All right."

"I shall send you his weekly schedule tomorrow morning and get you a referral." A shuffling of papers on her end.

"Thank you," says the empath.

"Will?"

"Yes?"

Her voice drops to a whisper. "Do you think my husband is possessed?"

"No," Graham says, his answer firmer than he really feels.

"Good night, Will."

"Good night, Bedelia."

Will Graham throws himself into the tangle of sheets that makes up his bed and instantly dreams. He dreams that he is holding onto an enormous black stag's antlers while dangling over a cliff. At the bottom of the cliff is a man whose limbs are contorted in unnatural positions. As if he has binoculars attached to his eyes, Will sees the man's face up close and cries out in desperation because it is Hannibal. He tries to look away, but no matter how hard he wishes to avert his eyes, he cannot. Just when Will believes he can no longer hold onto the smooth antlers, Dr. Lecter's eyes flash open, and the man smiles an unnatural smile. Black blood seeps out of his mouth.

"Am I possessed?" he says.

The profiler wakes up covered in sweat.

* * *

Du Maurier texts him her husband's schedule the next morning, and Will drinks a cup of bitter coffee before picking up a fresh bottle of aspirin and staking out Lecter that afternoon.

Hannibal follows the same routine. Right on schedule, the psychiatrist visits the aromatherapy shop, followed by the cemetery, where he places another fragrance on Dr. Fell's grave. Will plucks the bottle of tangerine essence once Lecter has left and pockets it with the other one. Then Hannibal visits the art museum again and goes to the same room, staring at the same painting. Graham does his best to occupy himself while he waits Lecter. Luckily, he doesn't have long to wait; after exactly a half hour, Hannibal leaves the museum. This time, Will follows him back to the lot. He is parked three rows behind the doctor, so he can view the man in his car.

The empath is about to start his Volvo when his phone vibrates, an unknown number popping up on the caller ID.

Slightly annoyed, Graham answers it, his voice hushed: "Yes?"

"Is this Mr. William Graham?"

Will almost drops his phone because the voice on the other end belongs to Hannibal Lecter.

"Uhh-yes. That's me."

Will cranes his neck to get a better view of the other man's Jaguar. He can barely make out Hannibal's profile inside the Jaguar, cell phone pressed to his ear. Graham immediately lies down in the front seat of his car, praying that he hasn't been discovered.

"This is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I received your referral from Dr. Chilton earlier today. He speaks very highly of you. Unfortunately, he has taken on too many clients lately and 'needs to trim the hedges'—his words."

A note of contempt at the mention of Chilton. His voice, slightly accented, holds authority while still being melodic, like a piece of baroque music. Will is afraid he will get lost in the words and has to clench a fist over his mouth to avoid making any nervous noises.

"Yes—he… Dr. Chilton told me. Do you have room for a new client, Dr. Lecter? I would be very grateful."

A pause that seems pleased at the answer. "Yes, I do have room, William. Do you prefer 'William'?"

"It's 'Will.'" His heart skips a beat.

"Very good. How does Friday at 1:00 sound?"

"Great." Will rolls his eyes at his childlike response. _Don't sound too eager._ "Thank you, Dr. Lecter."

"No trouble at all. I look forward to meeting you, Will."

 _Beep beep beep._

The doctor hangs up and Graham stays melded to the front seats of his Volvo until he hears the Jaguar glide out of the parking lot. Then he takes a deep, shaking breath and starts his engine.

TBC

 **A/N:** Ack! I know I promised that Will and Hannibal would meet face to face in this chapter, but it ran away from me again, and I'll have to postpone their face-to-face meeting until the _next_ chapter. Sorry! Thanks for your reviews! Let me know what you think of this one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Vertigo**

 **Chapter 7**

 **Warning:** violence and gore

The week flies past like a raven, gliding on black wings.

Friday morning.

Will Graham doesn't like what he sees in the bathroom mirror. Dark circles under eyes, scraggly remnants of a beard, wild curls in his untamable hair. He splashes water over his face, shiny droplets catching in his eyebrows.

The headache persists, an intense pressure in the front of his head.

Will shakes two aspirin out of their bottle into a palm then pops them in his mouth, grinding them between his teeth before swallowing. Their bitter taste wakes him up more than coffee, a slap to the face.

His hands shake as he returns the bottle to its place in the sparse medicine cabinet, and he inadvertently knocks over one of the fragrances he took from Dr. Fell's grave. It shatters on the floor, and the cool, clean scent of spearmint floods the bathroom. Graham gingerly picks up the minuscule shards of glass with his fingers and discards them, mopping up the small pool of fragrance with a wad of toilet paper before washing his hands.

He glances at himself in the mirror before heading back to his bedroom.

 _Just admit it: You're nervous about meeting him face-to-face._

Graham swallows.

He dresses plainly but with some style. At the very least, Will doesn't want to hide who he is within his clothing. A button-up green plaid under a brown jumper, ironed khakis, and brown dress shoes. Not quite a revelation, but comfortable. His best defense against an afternoon that promises to be anything but.

* * *

It's 12:55 PM, and Will Graham knocks on the psychiatrist's door. He lets out a breath and stares, once more, into the abyss.

The door opens. In a split second, Will takes in the doctor's attire: a light-blue checkered suit with an eggshell tie on an eggshell shirt and a matching pocket square. The look is demure, professional, and light. Graham's gaze lingers on the plain gold ring he wears on his left hand then shifts as far up as the taller man's lips, lingering on a trace of a smile before he looks away.

"Hello. I am Dr. Hannibal Lecter." The psychiatrist extends his arm for a greeting.

"Will Graham." The empath accepts the formality if only to feel the touch of Lecter's hand—cool but not clammy, pressed into his overly warm palm. When Graham can feel his hand sweat, he immediately lets go.

"Not a fan of eye contact, are you?" Hannibal's voice is calm, his expression unreadable.

Dr. Lecter reaches out to take Will's jacket, but the empath jerks away from him. Another ghost of a smile haunts Hannibal's face. "Nor physical contact, I see."

Graham clears his throat and removes his jacket, giving it to Hannibal.

 _You're already off to a bad start. Fix it._

The tips of their fingers brush, and Will jerks his hand away as if he has been burned.

"That's the least of my problems," he says gruffly and walks into Dr. Lecter's office.

The room is spacious: a large wooden desk off to the side with two leather armchairs facing each other in the foreground. A wrap-around upper level library observes them from above. _Like something out of a European fairy tale,_ Will thinks. The space smells of books and oak.

"Welcome to my office. Do you approve?"

Will answers truthfully. "It's beautiful."

"In what way?"

"It reminds… It reminds me of Henry Higgins' study in _My Fair Lady_ —a space occupied by learned men."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Do you enjoy film?" His unspoken question rings in Will's head just as plainly: _Do you consider me a learned man?_

Will shrugs, hiding a smile. "I see movies occasionally with a friend, Alana Bloom. She enjoys dragging me to a local art house cinema whenever they play a classic."

The psychiatrist indicates where Graham should sit with a nod of his head, a chair on the right. Will obeys. His hands instinctively fold in his lap, and he bows his head. When he chances a look up, Hannibal sits with his back pressed to his chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, and contemplating the empath. His face is as blank as ever, serene.

Lecter says, "Dr. Chilton's notes on your case are lacking. He did state that you are a professor and a criminal profiler for the FBI. You mentioned a moment ago that you have some problems. Can you talk about them?"

"I have vertigo."

"Spurned by acrophobia?"

Will shakes his head. "I'm not afraid of heights. At least, I wasn't until last March."

"What are your symptoms?"

The empath swallows on a dry throat. Hannibal, anticipating his needs, instantly gets to his feet and brings back a cup of water, setting it on the side table by his chair. Will thanks him and takes a sip before beginning.

"Nightmares. Dizziness when I… when I walk up more than a few steps. And headaches." He presses a hand to his forehead unconsciously at the mention of the malady, trying uselessly to rub the pain away.

"I see," Lecter says. "You said that you did not experience these symptoms before last March. What happened in March?"

 _The blood. The blood, like black and white paint splatters—_

Hannibal's voice like the wind rustles through leaves. "What happened in March?"

Will speaks thickly, as if under water. His mind steeps in memories that he cannot keep at bay. "The apprehension of Thomas Duff, the Hitchcock Killer."

"Ah, yes…" Will hears the other man's voice, but he doesn't see him. "I read about his murders in _The Tattler._ Terrible thing…"

 _Cheek pressed to the tile floor, slumped over the bathtub, blue eyes open and staring…_

"Perhaps it would help me understand your trauma if you went back to the beginning. How did you get involved with the case?"

Will Graham closes his eyes…

 _It is December, a shabby motel off Highway 95. 11:17 A.M._

 _Will Graham can smell the blood before he enters the room. He steps through a simple bedroom and notices a rolled newspaper, a medium-sized suitcase on rollers, a yellow notepad on the bedside table. Katz, Zeller, and Price are already on the scene in the bathroom, working like little ants. In the cramped space, they have to practically step over each other to work. Katz and Zeller pick through evidence while Price photographs the corpse. Flashes of bright light from the camera sting the empath's eyes._

 _"_ _Hey, Will," Beverly says without looking up from her tweezers._

 _Zeller informs him of the victim's identity. "Marion Chambers, 23."_

 _"_ _She was beautiful," Price says as he leans over the sink and snaps a photo._

 _Then Jack Crawford shouts from behind to clear the area. The forensic team doesn't even protest because it's become so routine. The freak needs time alone with the body. To mix his potions and say his incantations and_ become _the killer._

 _When everyone has left, Will plants his feet firmly on the floor, removes his glasses, and closes his eyes._

 _The gold pendulum swings like a blade: left, right left. And Graham begins._

 _"_ _I enter the motel because the door is unlocked, and I am expected, but not for half an hour. Marion is waiting for me."_

 _The sound of hissing water emanates from the bathroom and steam drifts underneath its door. The sketchpad reveals crossed out words and phrases:_

 _I don't think I can see you anymore._

 _Your wife knows._

 _I'm going to transfer to NYU._

 _Not a poem. Rehearsed lines for a let-down._

 _"_ _I realize she is going to break up with me, and this convinces me that what I am about to do is the right thing. It is the final push I need."_

 _The bathroom door opens silently. Marion's naked body is blurry through the shower curtain. The killer's figure is obscured by shadows as he pulls the curtain back, knife held high. Marion screams._

 _"_ _I stab her once in the abdomen, and she fights back. But her grip is too slippery from the water and the soap to find any purchase."_

 _Six more stabs, one right after the other on her torso. The eighth and final stab into her back as she pivots away from him._

 _Marion's hand spreads on the wall of the shower, fingers curling, trying to claw her way free, but it is too late. She turns around slowly, feeling the life flow out of her. Water from the shower continues to fall, like rain. A trail of red follows her as she slides down the wall. Her last act is to extend her hand, as if she is reaching out for an invisible helper. With her last breath, Marion clutches the clear shower curtain and rips half off its metal rings as her body folds over the tub._

 _Short blonde hair frames her face as her cheek presses into the tiled floor. Her blue eyes stare wide open, frozen in an expression of shock._

 _"_ _After she dies, I remove her heart. I know little of anatomy, and it is a messy business, but once it's over, and I have my prize, I leave the motel quickly."_

 _The shower continues to run…_

 _"_ _I kill because it is art and because I love her. Through death, her life will be preserved forever, like images on celluloid. This is my homage. This is my design."_

 _Will closes his eyes and opens them._

 _Jack Crawford stands beside him, shoulders squared, a general viewing his battlefield. Time is up._

 _"_ _Is it the Ripper?"_

 _Will pauses. "It's not him. But…he was_ part _of it somehow. This killer took inspiration from the Ripper."_

 _"_ _The trophy…"_

 _"_ _This was his first kill."_

 _"_ _Will there be others?"_

 _Will shakes his head. "It was too… frenzied. Passionate. I doubt he'll kill again."_

 _The two men stand in the carpeted motel room, dim lights shining on dark overcoats. Cautiously, the forensics team finds its way back to the bathroom and continues the investigation._

 _"_ _You ever seen_ Psycho?" _Crawford asks._

 _Will turns his head from side to side, thoughts racing, and physically numb._

 _"_ _I'll get the movie. You bring the popcorn."_

 _But Will is still lost in the final moments of Marion's life, her amaranthine blood mingling with the shower's spray to flow down the drain in a spiraling motion._

"Will?"

 _Spinning out, spinning out, spinning out. Then the drain in the motel room morphs into a grinning mouth dripping black blood as it laughs at him—_

Will gasps and comes back to himself, standing several feet away from where he had been sitting. Hannibal has one hand on his shoulder, steadying, and the psychiatrist's head tilts, intrigued. Graham has told him everything, minus the detail of the missing heart and its connection to the Chesapeake Ripper.

"Are you all right?"

Hannibal's hand burns through his sweater, but he allows it. The empath closes his eyes with a shuddering breath and removes his glasses to clean them, willing the dizziness to go away. Eventually, it does, and he allows Hannibal to lead him back to his chair, hand on his elbow. Then they resume their old positions.

"Remarkable," Hannibal says at last.

Will's head jerks up. "What is?"

"Your abilities. I have never seen such pure empathy displayed in an individual before. It's a rare gift."

"More like a curse," Will mutters.

"And why is that?" Hannibal probes.

 _Because it never stops it never stops I can't turn it off_

"Because there's… There's _always_ going to be some serial killer who needs tracking. Marion Chambers is the perfect example. I was wrong about her murder being a one-time thing. She was just the first." Will swallows bitterly.

"And she was killed by a man who admires Norman Bates," says Hannibal. "I wonder—does the killer have a maternal fixation?"

Graham isn't sure if the older man is being facetious or not. "I think we can safely assume there is no _dead mother in the fruit cellar_ , Dr. Freud."

"But we can assume that he is a cultured man, that he emulates what he loves."

"He _kills_ what he loves," Will responds. "But it goes without saying that he has seen his fair share of suspense and horror films. The _classic_ ones. The ones with four-star ratings."

"Isn't it fascinating that some films are declared art while others are deemed 'trash?' _Psycho_ shocked audiences in the 1960s because it depicted such a graphic murder, and yet it is considered today to be one of the greatest films of all time."

"It's tame by today's standards," says Will, "because it's in black and white."

"But Marion Chambers' crime scene wasn't in black and white," says Hannibal softly. "Was it, Will?"

Will lets out a breath. "No, it wasn't."

"How did analyzing the crime scene make you feel?"

Graham contemplates the question. He answers honestly but doesn't feel any better for it.

"Powerful. Energized. Horrified. Agonized."

Perhaps Lecter checks his watch without Will noticing, or perhaps he is an excellent timekeeper, but the psychiatrist stirs nonetheless.

"I would like to hear more about your thoughts on this case and how it has affected you in our next session. There is more to uncover. Would you agree?"

Will nods as Du Maurier's husband walks towards the east side of his office, framed by large windows. He pauses at a desk and flips through something—perhaps an appointment book. Graham's thoughts are so scattered that he doesn't notice Hannibal's silence until several minutes have passed.

"Dr. Lecter…"

No reaction. The other man looks down at his desk, body frozen, as if he never heard his name. Quietly, Will shuffles to his feet and approaches the psychiatrist slowly. As he gets closer, he notices that Hannibal is not looking at a calendar but at a charcoal sketch on a piece of paper. The sketch appears to be of a tower of some kind—dark, looming.

Graham clears his throat and tries again. "Dr Lecter—"

The psychiatrist turns around so quickly that Will flinches in surprise, and his gaze locks with the other man's for the first time since their meeting.

Will looks deeply into Hannibal's eyes and sees the same eyes he viewed in the painting in the Baltimore Museum of Art—maroon stained glass windows that balk at shadows and instead pierce his mind, as delicately as a scorpion's tail, stinging. Unreadable, unreachable, and thus the most desirable—

"Is that spearmint?"

Will can almost feel his blood freeze. He thinks of the perfume bottle that shattered in his bathroom earlier that morning. Although he can't smell anything, perhaps the scent lingered on his fingers…

 _Thinkfastthinkfastthink_

"Yes—I use it to calm my nerves."

"A wise method. It's a well-known fact that scents can manipulate basic emotions."

A quirk of Hannibal's lips as the psychiatrist leads Graham politely to the exit. The profiler can't breathe.

"Until next Friday, Will. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Dr. Lecter."

TBC

 **A/N:** I changed the rating of this fic from T to M because murder. My descriptions shouldn't be any more graphic than this one, but I wanted to be safe. This chapter was more challenging to write because it forced me to go back and re-watch the shower scene from _Psycho_ (not that I'm complaining) and try to describe what I saw in flashes. Things get more twisty and turny from here on out! Let me know what ya think!


End file.
